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Brakes / The Maybes / Captain Black
London, 100 Club
Article written by
Paul M - Jun 22, 2008
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This large basement venue in the centre of London's main shopping street has hosted some of the premier performers of three generations since its doors first opened in 1942. Louis Armstrong, Keith Richards, John Lyden, Joe Strummer, Matt Bellamy and, er, that hairy fella from Toploader have all broken into a sweat down here. Its decor remains set in the 70s and there's always a broader range of ages present, regardless of event, than anywhere else. Indeed fitting a Stannah stairlift might be useful to help get half the attendees in and out of the venue safely. I arrive, refreshed to the brink of drowning, to find two Japanese girls on the stage using strange ethnic instruments. The room's half empty and by the time I've topped up my ale with another snifter they're gone.
Captain Black
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Captain Black are a band I've been enjoying more and more with each release. With a skiffle folk core their singles have been a cracking series of little plastic wonders. Now I've finally seen them I'm a little concerned. Someone next to me dismisses them as "a bunch of haircuts" which probably says more about his rapidly thinning crown than the five good looking fellas before me but there's a stadium indie blandness to nearly half the songs perfomed tonight. I worry that someone has told them they could be the next Razorlight, as if that's some sort of thing to aspire to and too many songs tonight have a whiff of 'anthem' about them. Still, the good stuff remains great. Come On Up To Our House is pure southern states hillbilly gospel and recent single Sister has a hook so big Moby Dick and his brother Spotted could be snared on it.
The Maybes
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If Captain Black look like the kind of lads your sister would break her heart over, Merseyside quintet the Maybes resemble the aftermatch of a horrible corn picking accident. Lookers they ain't. However, while they're unlikely to be cropping up in Top Man posters sporting skinny fit jeans and figure hugging cardies any day soon, they sure know how to play their instruments. The rosey cheeked drummer can scarcely breathe he's maintaining such a brilliant high tempo rhythm and the lead guitarist, who is so small he probably sleeps in a baby's booty, effortlessly meanders around his fretboard in the manner only a top nimble fingered guitarist can. For a while the music's good too, a kind of timeless 60s powerpop beat, but then they suddenly switch tack and for what seems like three weeks they play swirling jazzy funk techno. To these delicate ears it sounds like an abomination of the worst kind, Santana with glo-sticks but at its close half the room disagree with a hearty cheer. One for the musos, perhaps.
The Brakes
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To complete what has been an inspired mixture of performers where even their individual sets are eclectic, come the most varied of all, Brakes. As everyone must now know the band is a supergroup with members drawn from other Brighton based acts (Electric Soft Parade, British Sea Power and Tenderfoot). This variety of origins is the reason why Brakes can switch between folk, hardcore punk, indie dance and alt-country and each track be welcomed as warmly as the last. They'd not performed together in 2008 prior to tonight but you'd never guess it. Some tracks like Porcupine & Pineapple take longer to announce than perform; 10 seconds of thrashed mayhem under daft lyrics while All Night Disco Party is as pulsating as its title suggests but it's the deranged alt-country of Spring Chicken that really hammers home why Brakes are still one of the best live acts around.
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